


Common Ground

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-01
Updated: 2013-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 03:17:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/987024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders and Carver both want things that they know they cannot have, and find some unsteady common ground.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming Together

“You’re a consummate son-of-a-bitch, Hawke. That’s what I love about you!” Varric’s jovial voice melted into a long, jolly, rolling laugh, one that was only finally interrupted by the rim of his beer mug as it touched his lips.

Garrett only grinned and laughed in response, leaning across the sturdy wooden table and slapping Varric heartily on the back before leaning back in his chair, propping his feet up on the corner of the table.

“You know me, Varric. I aim to please.” Garrett languidly leaned an elbow against the arm of the chair, sliding his chin into his palm with a rakish grin as he gently rubbed his fingers into his beard.

They were in Varric’s suite—a grand euphemism for a couple of dingy, dirty, poorly-lit rooms—at the Hanged Man, indulging in a celebration of sorts. Bartrand had been won over by Garrett’s coin, if not his charm, and the idea of a Deep Roads expedition was no longer a distant dream, but something very real and within their grasp.

Varric chuckled after swallowing a mouthful of his beer, quickly draining the mug and thumping it amiably down on the table. “No shit, Hawke. With the amount of coin you’ve managed to stuff into your purse these last few weeks, I’d say you’ve done a **lot** of ‘pleasing’ around Hightown.”

An arm’s length away down near one end the table, Merrill and Isabela immediately began giggling incessantly amongst themselves. Isabela stared to chuckle first, with Merrill joining in a moment later. Suddenly, she paused, leaned in close to Isabela, and whispered, “Why are we laughing? Oh, it’s something dirty, isn’t it?”

Isabela sighed. “Oh, kitten. I’ve got _so many things_ to teach you. If you haven’t tried swaggering around a barroom and flirting with drunken sailors while giggling at innuendo, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

“We don’t have many sailors out among the Dalish,” Merrill mused a bit matter-of-factly. “I can’t imagine dragging a ship along behind the aravel. We’d never get anywhere.”

Isabela laughed quietly into the fresh drink she’d just picked up and shook her head, holding it out in front of Merrill after taking a swig. “Try this, kitten. It’ll put a little hair on your chest.”

Merrill stared back in befuddlement, reluctantly taking the cup and peering into it. “Why would I want hair on my chest? Doesn’t Varric have enough for all of us?”

“Be careful, Daisy. Flattery will get you everywhere.” Varric grinned proudly, straightening his tunic to show off his assets as much as possible.

“It is a figure of speech,” Fenris muttered from his spot beside Garrett, sitting ramrod-straight and mirthlessly scowling at a mug that he’d barely touched. “Remind me why I agreed to this, again? It was certainly not for the drinks. Or the company.” He shot Merrill a sideways glare before turning to focus one more glare over his shoulder, across the room in the general direction of where Anders happened to be standing, leaning against a support beam with his arms folded and his gaze focused on Garrett, as much as he consciously tried to hide it.

Nobody answered Fenris, but Garrett turned to look at him, and an unmistakably meaningful glance passed between the two of them before Fenris pointedly looked away, excusing the need for an actual reply.

Carver sat silently at the very end of the table on the side opposite Garrett, firing furtive glances in his elder brother’s direction in between large swigs of beer. He was drinking much more quickly than usual, but since it was his brother's coin paying for it and he had nowhere else to be and nothing better to do, so he decided to let himself fall into the sweet, dizzying arms of intoxication as quickly as possible tonight, if he could.

“It’s too bad Aveline couldn’t join us,” Varric mused aloud, pushing several empty mugs to one side for Edwina to clear the next time she happened to come around.

Isabela gave a little whoop of agreement, taking her cup back from Merrill and finishing it off. “Big Girl with a couple of pints in her? **That** I’d pay to see. I bet I could have her dancing on the tables before midnight.”

“She’ll have her hands full with the Guard while we’re off traipsing about in the Deep Roads,” Garrett began, nursing a drink while watching the rest of his companions, finally letting his eyes rest on his brother. “Never mind having to baby-sit Carver while I’m gone.”

Carver’s eyes flashed at that comment as he spluttered and nearly choked on his beer, but he held his tongue long enough to finish his third mug—or was it his fourth? He was having difficulty remembering—before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and scowling in Garrett’s direction.

“Brother?”

“Yes?” Garrett smiled sweetly, sipping his drink.

“Shut up.”

Garrett didn’t even give him the satisfaction of a snarky retort. He simply turned away and finished his drink, his cocky, self-satisfied smirk never leaving his face. Carver felt his blood begin to boil, color and heat rising to the surface of his cheeks, unbidden.

Isabela pointed this out almost immediately, of course, grinning and nudging Merrill with her elbow. “Aw, look. He’s blushing.”

Carver felt embarrassment creeping up inside, adding to the miasma of anger and frustration already swirling around him, and it only made him flush deeper. It didn’t help that he was **very** physically attracted to Isabela, despite the way she teased him and made him constantly trip over his own tongue every time he tried to speak more than two words to her... And then there was his soft spot for Merrill, who was so sweet and accomodatingly good-natured... and yet he somehow managed to screw up talking to her every time, too. Unlike Garrett, who had people hanging on his every word and laughing readily at every joke he told—even the unfunny ones.

When Carver was a jerk, he was told to stop acting like a child, to grow up and be more mature. When Garrett was a jerk, it was ‘charming’ or even ‘witty’. Carver failed to understand the difference.

He gripped the edge of the table in both hands, squeezing it as though he could somehow physically squeeze his agitation out through the wood if he tried hard enough.

He could never win against Garrett—not at anything, not ever. Even though Carver had gotten the last word in just a few moments earlier, Garrett had still found some way to one-up him without ever saying anything. It infuriated Carver to no end that no matter what he did, his brother had already been there and done that, and had long since come home to regale everyone with grand tales of his magnificent exploits.

It seemed like _everyone_ loved him, or was at least drawn to him, inexplicably, even if they didn’t like him. Everyone was on his side about everything. Everyone wanted him, whether or not Garrett even cared. Carver noticed Anders conspicuously mooning over Garrett from over in the corner like a lovesick dairymaid, keeping extra-quiet and more to himself than usual as he stole constant, probing glances over in Garrett’s direction.

They had both apparently been staring at him all night, though for different reasons.

Carver looked away. Garrett had to know the way Anders was looking at him, and yet he didn’t seem to care at all. Not that Carver felt sorry for Anders, _of course not_ , but he did know how much it hurt to seek approval from someone, only to have them stare right past you every time.

Like right now, for example. Edwina had just come around again, so Carver was miserably searching for comfort at the bottom of another mug, but Garrett was thoroughly enjoying himself down at the opposite corner. Isabela was draping herself across his lap and toying with his beard, her _very_ shapely breasts pressing brazenly against Garrett’s chest as she leaned forward to whisper something in his ear. Merrill watched them closely, looking to be both completely scandalized and utterly curious, at the same time.

In an attempt to avert his eyes, Carver glanced in just the wrong direction at just the wrong moment, and managed to catch a quick glimpse of Garrett’s hand sliding smoothly over next to Fenris, who still sat beside him. Garrett’s hand settled itself almost nonchalantly between them as he brushed the backs of his fingers suggestively against the side of Fenris’ thigh.

Carver felt his stomach tighten and his face burn even more furiously as he quickly looked away. He knew that Anders had seen it, too, when he heard him begin to politely cough at that very moment.

“I think I need some fresh air...” Anders muttered, almost under his breath, barely loud enough to have been heard. He uncrossed his arms and pushed off from the support beam he had been leaning against, brushing his hair away from his face as he turned and headed down the steps.

With Anders gone, Carver suddenly felt that much more out of place and unwanted—not that Anders made him feel _wanted_ , but when he had been present at least Carver had been able to reassure himself that he wasn’t the only one in the room being left out or overlooked.

Now that he was the only one left not enjoying himself—even Fenris, with his stiff, disgruntled attitude, was at least having some sort of positive attention paid to him by Garrett—Carver felt awkward and out of place.

He pushed himself back from his chair, starting to feel slightly unsteady from drink but not unsteady enough to want to stay put, and tried to think of something to say that would be a valid excuse for him to leave. Anders had already used the ‘fresh air’ excuse, and it would sound utterly stupid for him to say the same thing.

After a moment Carver realized that nobody would actually care why he was leaving, and stopped worrying about reasons and excuses altogether. He simply thumped his nearly-empty mug on the table, shoved his chair in, turned, and left without a word. He could feel Garrett’s eyes on him as he left, but his brother didn’t say a word, didn’t call out to him, didn’t tell him not to go.

And for once, Carver was glad.

Carver tromped through the main room of the Hanged Man, pointedly avoiding looking at or speaking to anyone else, even the somewhat plain-faced girl at one of the tables with the drowsy-looking eyes that he might have been just drunk enough to try and chat up had it been any other night. Just... not tonight.

He slammed the door of the Hanged Man behind him as he left, the cool, fresh air on his face a welcome change from the hot, stuffy atmosphere inside. It still smelled faintly of garbage and filth, but at least a gentle breeze was blowing, keeping it moving and pulling some of the heat from Carver’s face as it brushed against his skin.

“This was a bad idea...” he muttered to himself, kicking at the wall before leaning up against it and folding his arms.

“For once, we agree.” Anders’ voice hit Carver’s ears from a few feet away, and he jerked his head up and in the direction of it, having nearly forgotten that he wasn’t alone. His voice had this... sarcastic lilt to it that was almost musical, Carver noticed. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed before. Then again, he generally wasn’t in the habit of paying attention to much of anything that came out of Anders’ mouth.

“I don’t belong here,” Carver spat, suddenly feeling a bit lightheaded from drink again. He turned and braced himself up against the side of the building and looked up at the sky. It was clear and nearly cloudless, with a sprinkling of stars cast across it.

Anders chuckled softly, also leaning against the side of the building, but with the door between the two of them. It was a bitter, wistful chuckle, but Carver didn’t pick up on those subtleties. All he heard was Anders laughing, and he scowled.

“What’s so bloody funny?”

“Nothing,” Anders replied, honestly. There was nothing funny about the situation. Sad and unfortunate, perhaps, but certainly not ‘funny’. But he didn’t have the words to tell Carver that, and he didn’t know how to tell Carver that he understood, even if only a little bit. So he said nothing.

There was an awkward pause, and Carver anxiously shifted his weight from foot to foot a couple of times before opening his mouth again.

“Why don’t you ever drink with the rest of us?” He was sure that his brother knew, but Carver himself had never been privy to that information, and it always seemed so very strange to see everyone but Anders drinking together while Anders had nothing but the disgusting brackish stuff that the Hanged Man referred to as ‘water’.

“I don’t think that’s any of your business.” Anders’ voice had an overly defensive edge to it. Carver sighed, and let it go. This was hardly the time to be picking fights.

Anders scuffed the toe of his boot against the ground, grinding pebbles into it and one another with a harsh scraping noise that grated on Carver’s ears. After a moment, he stopped and sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingertips. He looked tired.

Carver watched Anders intently for a moment, wondering if the strange feeling growing in the pit of his stomach was disgust, or pity, or something else altogether. They were constantly at each other’s throats most of the time, primarily because Anders could never seem to shut his mouth about mages and he was tired of hearing it. But when he wasn’t doing that, Carver noticed, he wasn’t all that bad.

“He doesn’t want us.” Carver blurted out, suddenly, the words spilling from his mouth before he could think better of it and hold his tongue.

“Beg pardon?” Anders blinked in surprise, his eyebrows shooting up as he waited for further elaboration.

Carver wasn’t sure _how_ to elaborate, or why he’d opened his mouth at all, or what he’d really even meant by it. He wanted to blame it on the beer, but he’d barely had enough to make his knees wobble, certainly not enough to affect his brain _that_ much.

“My brother...” Carver muttered, choosing his words slowly and carefully. “He always gets what he wants,” He looked back over at Anders, who was also looking up at the sky, just as he had been, “and he doesn’t want you. Or me.”

Anders stood there quietly, still looking upward, not turning to look at Carver at all. He didn’t know how to reply to that. He knew, deep down, that Carver was right, and it hurt.

Carver suddenly felt quite tired. He let his back slide down against the wall until he reached the ground, drawing one knee up in front of him and letting the other one fall out to the side, with his head leaning up against the wall behind him. Anders heard the noise of him sliding down and finally looked over, and against his better judgement took up the spot beside him, sitting in a similar fashion only with both knees drawn up in front of him, his arms resting on top of his legs with his palms over his knees.

“Bethany was always the peacemaker of the family.” Carver wasn’t sure why that thought had come to mind so suddenly, but it had, and the filter between his thoughts and his words seemed to be painfully absent at the moment, so as soon as it had formed in his mind, it had tumbled out of his mouth for Anders to hear.

“I’d comment, but you nearly bit my head off the last time I said something about your sister.”

Carver snorted and ignored the comment. He remembered that conversation quite well, and didn’t particularly feel like apologizing. And he still wasn’t sure whether or not he felt Anders had the right to be making comments about his sister, anyway.

“My brother... Garrett and I... we would always get into these... brawls.” Carver scratched his head, shifting where he sat to brush some pebbles out from under him that were causing him a fair amount of discomfort to sit on. “About everything. But Bethany always smoothed things over and made us stop fighting. She would always say, ‘We’re all we’ve got. We have to stick together.’ I guess it sounds stupid to say that, now.”

“No, it’s not stupid,” Anders reassured him, quietly.

“It’s so stupid.” Carver laughed to himself, and Anders wasn’t sure whether or not he’d actually heard him. “Even though she was a mage and I wasn’t, I always felt like Bethany was the only one who ever understood me. Or believed in me.”

Anders kept silent.

“And now we’re here in Kirkwall, with blood mages running amok. They’re allowed to run free, and Bethany’s gone. And my brother struts around like the cock of the walk, like he doesn’t even care. He’ll get his expedition, Mother will get her estate and it will be all thanks to him. Everyone will be happy and he’ll be the hero. Same as always.”

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit hard on him?” Anders somehow felt the need to defend Garrett, despite everything, though he realized that he probably should have kept his mouth shut once he saw the anger that was flashing in Carver’s eyes.

“Don’t act like you know me, Mage,” Carver growled, turning slightly and jabbing a large, meaty index finger into Anders’ chest. “Just because you want to fuck my brother doesn’t make you some kind of master authority on him. Or me. Or my family.” The rest of Carver’s fingers followed the firstas he angrily shoved Anders back against the wall.

Anders, who had been feeling sympathetic up to that point, felt his temper flare. He grabbed Carver’s hand and forcibly pulled his fingers away, pushing them to the ground before scrambling to his feet and looking down at Carver with scorn.

“The little soldier likes to talk big, doesn’t he?” Anders spat, sarcastically. Carver jumped to his own feet, bumping against Anders with his broad chest. Anders stepped back just a little. He may have been older, but Carver was a fair bit bigger. Not as big as Garrett, but close.

Carver’s youthful arrogance and impetuosity fueled the adrenaline that was pumping in his blood, now. Anders had nearly been an ally to him in his personal battle with insecurity against his brother, but once Anders tried to defend him... all bets were off.

“You’re not the only one that can mouth off around here, magey.” Carver’s face was close enough to his that Anders could smell the stale beer on his breath. He grabbed Anders’ collar and shoved him against the wall again, releasing the collar of Anders’ mantle once he hit the wall, pinning him by both his shoulders, instead.

Anders grunted at the feel of Carver pressing against his shoulders and tried to free himself by wriggling, but Carver was quite strong, and in a test of physical prowess, there was no way Anders would win.

“Let go,” he snarled, still trying to pull away.

“Now who’s all talk?” Carver scoffed.

“I’m warning you, Carver...” Anders’ voice was low, but serious. “Let go of me.”

“Or what? You’ll tell my brother?” Carver suddenly released Anders from his grip and stepped back. “Why do you think I left? He’s probably got his tongue halfway down the elf's throat by now, but you’re welcome to go check.” He swept his arm out toward the door of the Hanged Man in an exaggerated gesture. “By all means.”

“I can’t _imagine_ why nobody likes you.” Anders gritted his teeth in anger. He turned and started to walk away, refusing to engage in any further nonsense. It was clear that attempting to lend a sympathetic ear was only going to get his own insecurities thrown back in his face, so he might as well simply go home. The rats might nibble at his coat while he slept, but at least they didn’t hurl hurtful insults and epithets.

Carver stood there in the dark, head pounding, blood boiling... and actually felt a twinge of guilt. It surprised him at first, but began to nag so terribly in the pit of his stomach that after a minute or two, he couldn’t simply stand there and do nothing. Anders had already begun to stomp away by then, so he ran to catch up, calling out to try and get Anders to stop, or at least slow down and acknowledge him.

“Hey!” Carver gasped breathlessly when he finally caught up to Anders, who had not slowed in the least. He grabbed one of Anders’ wrists to try and get him to stop, but Anders pulled away as hard as he could, spinning around with angry fire in his eyes.

“What do you want, _Carver_?”

“I..” Carver stuttered as he tried to catch his breath. “I’m sorry.”

“How kind of you!” Anders shot back dryly before turning away and beginning to walk again.

“Wait, damn you!” Carver yelled, and to his surprise, Anders actually stopped and waited. By the time Carver caught up once more, Anders was looking at him with a gaze full of quiet intensity, studying him carefully.

“I said... I was sorry. What more do you want?”

“What do I _want_?” Anders spat. “Maybe to believe you’re _actually_ sorry, instead of spitting some meaningless words at me to assuage your own guilt? Maybe to get a _thank you_ for taking the time to try and listen to you and offer sympathy, only to have it blow up in my face? Maybe for you to actually acknowledge the fact that I have a **name** , and it isn’t ‘magey’. Any or all of them. They’re all valid. Take your pick.”

“I...” Carver faltered. He sighed, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “I’m... an idiot. And I went too far.” He drew a long, deep breath and then exhaled slowly. “Anders, I’m sorry.”

Anders stood there quietly for a few moments, regarding Carver with a stern expression on his face. Slowly, the anger began to melt, just a bit, and Anders finally relented, crossing his arms with a soft sigh.

“Apology accepted.”

“A truce, then,” Carver offered with an outstretched hand, “for now.”

Anders reluctantly unfolded his own arms and reached out to take Carver’s hand, which closed easily and comfortably over his own, slightly smaller one.

Carver had intended to just give Anders’ hand a small shake and then let go, but realized a moment later that he had not let go at all, and was still standing there in the middle of the street, clasping Anders’ hand and staring stupidly at him. Carver’s heart jumped in his chest and he suddenly dropped Anders’ hand as though it had scalded him, reaching up to anxiously rub his neck and scratch his head.

They continued to stand there, staring awkwardly at one another in silence, until Anders cleared his throat and said, “I should go. Good night, Carver.”

Carver nodded dumbly as Anders turned and started to walk away again, letting his hands drop to his sides. He opened his palm, the one that had touched Anders’ only a few moments before, and rubbed at it. An odd, strange, fond feeling of warmth slowly spread through him, and it made him feel terribly uneasy. He looked up and called out to Anders once more, but this time he called him by name.

“Anders!”

Anders froze in place, turning around slowly once more to see Carver running towards him again, stopping in front of him with his hands on his knees, panting softly.

“Changed your mind about the truce?” Anders chirped, obviously teasing.

“You’re half right,” Carver said, shaking his head and standing up straight. “I've changed my mind, but not about that.”

Anders sighed. “Carver, it’s late. I’m tired. What is it you want?”

“This.” Carver replied simply, as he leaned in and covered Anders' mouth with his own.


	2. Falling Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A kiss, a mistake, and an end.

Anders couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t blink.

_Carver_ was kissing him.

It was a situation that Anders had never anticipated, though he was surprised to discover that it was not at all unpleasant, even if he was usually more comfortable being the initiator of surprise kisses rather than the recipient. Either way, considering the events of the past year or so and the fact that he was in love with a man who was unlikely to ever return his feelings, Anders had pushed most of his thoughts about ever being kissed again into a tiny dark place somewhere near the back of his mind to be buried and forgotten.

But despite everything, there he was, being kissed in the middle of the street outside the Hanged Man—by Carver, of all people. Carver, Garrett's younger brother. Carver, a man he seemed to be unable to exchange more than two words with before one of them fired off a snide comment or started an argument. There had always been tension between them, an abrasive feeling of impending conflict bubbling just below the surface, lying in wait for one of them to open their mouths to speak. By all rights, the thought of kissing Carver should have been repugnant to Anders—distasteful, at the very least—and while that logic seemed to be quite solid as far as Anders was concerned, in theory, it turned out that the actual reality of it was, somehow, something very different.

Anders had frozen in place the moment Carver’s lips touched his, reeling from the shock of it. Carver’s mouth was warm and rough and dry and eager, and it wasn’t until Anders felt himself being pushed back against the cold stone wall of a nearby building with Carver’s hands on his shoulders that he felt his senses begin to return.

Anders pressed both his palms flat against Carver’s chest and pushed him gently, licking his bottom lip as they separated. Carver loosened his grip on Anders’ shoulders and backed up just a half-step for some breathing room. He averted his eyes almost immediately, drawing a deep breath while looking off to one side, refusing to meet Anders’ questioning gaze.

Anders thought it oddly amusing that Carver could not even look him in the eye, now, having been bold enough to grab him and kiss him right in the middle of the street only moments before. As difficult as it was to admit to himself, though, Anders felt equally unprepared to deal with what had just happened between them, and his mind raced for something to say to break the uneasy silence.

Anders knew he _could_ simply push past Carver and trudge back to his clinic in silence, writing it off as a moment of foolish weakness, a regrettable _faux pas_ that was not to be spoken of or revisited. Pondering the fact that he was neither upset nor angry about the kiss gave him pause, however. Without a protective shield of anger at hand to deflect his unease, Anders held fast to the other coping mechanism he clung to for comfort—sarcasm.

“Was that... part of the terms of your truce?” Anders asked, a bemused lilt coloring his mocking tone.

Carver’s face flushed a faint shade of red that Anders could just barely detect in the darkness, a darkness that suddenly seemed to weigh down on them where they stood. Carver let his hands drop to his sides and clenched his fingers nervously, balling them up into fists. He was still unable to look at Anders directly, and shifted his weight back and forth from one leg to the other.

“You’re making fun of me,” Carver muttered as he lifted a hand and rubbed a palm against his shoulder anxiously.

“Carver...” The softness and lack of hostility in his voice surprised even Anders himself.

“It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have—I just thought... Shit.” Carver sighed deeply in frustration, groping for some magical combination of words that would allow him to voice those frustrations, rather than keep them inside, where they caused nothing but aggravation and fear. Unfortunately, communication had never been his strong suit.

“I just keep digging myself deeper, don’t I?” Carver choked back a bitter laugh, slamming his fist into the wall right above Anders’ left shoulder. The blow had landed a bit too close for comfort, but rather than flinch or move away, Anders simply regarded Carver with a quiet, calm expression on his face.

Carver looked directly at Anders for the first time since he’d kissed him, but just as quickly as their eyes met, he faltered and lost his nerve and looked away again. “Just...” he began softly before trailing off into silence, and Anders could see from the tension in his face that he was visibly conflicted. Carver swallowed hard and steeled his jaw, trying to force himself to just spit out whatever it was he wanted to say, but before he could do that he needed to come to terms with exactly what it was he wanted to express, and that was something he simply couldn’t do. He sighed again, and to Anders it sounded like defeat.

“Sod it.” Carver mumbled halfway under his breath. “Just forget it happened.”

Carver started to pull back and step away, to turn and run and hide like a frightened puppy with its tail tucked between its legs, but Anders’ palms were still laying flat against his chest, and before Carver could flee completely, Anders dug his fingers into his shirt and pulled him back, pausing for one awkward moment with his fists full of thick, rough fabric before tilting his face up, pressing their mouths together quickly and firmly.

It was Carver’s turn to be surprised, grunting softly as the urge to flee subsided along with the tension in his shoulders. He was only dimly aware of it when Anders released his grip on the shirt and reached up to cup Carver’s face in both his hands, drawing him closer. As Anders moved, the feathers on his pauldrons tickled the underside of Carver’s chin just enough to make him squirm, and he grabbed Anders roughly by the shoulders in response, pushing him back hard against the wall. A soft, surprised sound rose from the back of Anders’ throat as his back hit the wall, warm breath rushing out from between his lips and into the kiss, followed almost defiantly by his tongue.

Carver briefly entertained the idea of stopping to think about what they were doing, but decided that he had already been thinking far too much for one evening. The warmth of Anders’ tongue tracing a line along the inside edge of his lower lip only cemented the finality of that decision for him as a shiver shot down his spine and he returned the kiss in earnest.

Anders slid his palms down Carver’s clean-shaven jawline and along sides of his neck, pressing his thumbs against the bits of firm, hard collarbone that stood out near the base of his throat, tracing the rest of his fingers along the well-defined lines of bone before slipping his arms around Carver’s neck, crossing his wrists to lock them in place. He, too, had abandoned rational thought for the moment, so consumed by his own loneliness and starved for human contact to the point where he was beginning to care very little as to whom was touching him, as long as he could simply feel the warmth of another human being’s touch for just a little while.

Anders also quickly learned that what Carver lacked in experience, he more than made up for in sincerity and eagerness. It was not long before Anders, who had been leading their little dance this time, felt that lead slowly slipping away from him as Carver’s kisses grew deeper, harder, and far less sloppy. And surprisingly, it was Anders who eventually pulled away from the embrace, feeling quite dizzy and gasping softly for breath.

Anders closed his eyes and tried to breathe deeply, letting his lungs drink their fill of the cool night air as he waited for the dizziness to subside, leaning back heavily against the wall. Carver dipped his head and pressed a kiss against Anders’ jaw, the rough layer of stubble leaving a strange prickling sensation against his lips, a feeling so very different from what he knew from kissing the timid little farm girls back home in Lothering, or the practiced, painted whores at the Rose. They were soft. Anders was rough, all lean bone and muscle and tightly-bound energy, and while he looked fragile sometimes there was the constant feeling of raw power emanating from him, resonating somewhere just below the surface. Carver felt that energy there beneath his lips as he pressed a line of hot, wet kisses down the length of Anders’ neck, down toward the soft indentation at the base of his throat.

A soft, shivering moan built up in the depths of Anders’ throat, rising up slowly as he exhaled, vibrating gently through his chest and against Carver’s lips before tumbling from his mouth, followed by a sharp, quick gasp and the feel of Carver’s thick, dark hair between his fingers as he ran his hands through it.

Anders felt the tiniest bit free for one fleeting moment, his thoughts and cares and worries somewhere else, somewhere very far away where they could not weigh him down, just for a while. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had felt such a sense of warm, comforting pleasure, even though he knew there was virtually no chance it would last. It was all he could do to simply cling to it as tightly as possible, allowing himself one little moment of weakness, one brief, tiny sliver of respite. He gave himself over to it, savoring it as deeply and completely as he could before it was gone.

“Garrett...” Anders sighed breathlessly into the cool night air.

The moment the sound of his brother’s name hit his ears, Carver jerked back as if he’d been struck. Anders immediately realized exactly what he’d said, the awful mistake that he’d made without thinking, and clapped one hand over his own mouth as though he could swallow his terrible error. Carver was staring at him in disbelief and anger and hurt and something else that Anders just couldn’t place, and this time it was Anders who had to turn away, afraid and embarrassed and completely unable to meet Carver’s gaze.

“Carver, I...” Anders mumbled, his hand still pressed against his mouth. He knew it didn’t matter what he did or didn’t say. The mistake he’d made was one that simply could not be fixed with words, or anything else, for that matter. Before he could finish stammering out a useless apology or begin cursing his own carelessness and stupidity, Anders sprang forward from his place against the wall, taking off in the direction of the Undercity as fast as he could walk without actually running, leaving Carver alone, standing there by himself in the middle of the street.

Carver watched Anders as he fled, unable to say or do or even feel anything but shock as his shadowy silhouette grew smaller and smaller in the distance until he eventually dipped completely out of sight behind a wall. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there alone in the middle of the street before thinking that he should probably go somewhere, but he didn’t know where else to go. There was absolutely no way he could return to the Hanged Man and face his brother and everyone else, not now. And he didn’t want to go home, which would never really feel like ‘home’ or do anything but make him feel depressed and angry, and he didn’t think he could stand those feelings weighing down on him on top of everything else.

There was nowhere for him to go, nowhere he belonged. That fact remained unchanged—he'd simply forgotten it for a moment.

So he stood, alone, in the middle of the street, staring at single lamp somewhere in the distance burning bright against the darkness, with the warmth of Anders’ body still fresh in his mind and the sting of Anders’ rough stubble still fresh on his lips.


End file.
